


participation

by yanderemonoma



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coercion, Corruption, Dubious Morality, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Substitution, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanderemonoma/pseuds/yanderemonoma
Summary: Bedalia should turn away. She should leave the room. Leave them to their crime.But she won't.
Relationships: Anthony Dimmond/Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter, Anthony Dimmond/Hannibal Lecter, Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter (past)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	participation

“Now,” Antony starts, and there’s a smirk playing on his lips as he looks coyly at the two. “Are you _sure_ it’s not that kind of party?”

“Dead sure,” Hannibal purrs in reply, before he lunges.

* * *

Hannibal drapes Antony's body across the bed. He isn't dead, though he lays against the mattress with the same grotesque stillness of a corpse, pale, malleable, his brows lightly furrowed as if in absolute commitment tos stay somewhat connected to the nightmare about to befall him. His limbs are limp, his eyes closed. His clothes are stripped away with the same swift and careful grace that Hannibal surely uses to strip flesh from bone, removing the unwanted dressings and placing them aside at a reasonable distance. 

Bedelia watches, slack-jawed and hovering besides the decorated frame of the door, as Hannibal strips himself and readies the body underneath him. His fingers, slick with lubrication, move with near-surgical determination, and there’s a faint smile on his lips as he opens his prize up slowly, his eyes glittering with hunger, his hand gentle as he caresses a curly lock from Antony’s brow. 

It's an abhorrent sight. Tears glaze her vision, itching at her peripheries as they refuse to fall. Her breath sinks its nails into her lungs, caught inside her and choking her for her reluctance to move closer or way, punishing her for not even having the sense to run. It's not like Hannibal would stop her. It's not like Hannibal will _stop_. 

Hannibal leans in to kiss him, and a scream makes its best attempt to crawl up her throat. 

She doesn’t know what it is that possesses her to speak suddenly. Something about the obvious affection that bleeds into the air when she knows better, when she _knows_ the man under him is as indistinguishable to him as any other slab of meat. Maybe she wants him to _know_ that she can’t be fooled by the loving performance in front of her. Maybe he doesn’t realize it in himself. 

Maybe she just couldn't stand the thought of his mouth touching another's like that, right where she could see it. 

Her lips part, and there’s another few seconds before she can utter out the words:

“Are you imagining him?”

Hannibal pauses, hand poised on his hip, against the base of his cock, and he smiles like he has been waiting for that question all along. “I could.”

Bedelia frowns, and she ponders that answer as she moves to hug herself, a weak defense against what she’s witnessing. 

“What do you see? When you envision him under you...”

Hannibal lets out a sigh as he slides into the pliant body underneath him. His head tips back, his eyes closed, reverent. Hypnotized, she watches his eyes flickering beneath his eyelids, back and forth, like he were suddenly submerged in a dream.

“He is beautiful,” he exhales after a moment, the words falling into a low moan. “Isn’t he...”

He sighs again, and he is talking before she can even finish drawing enough breath for a reply. 

“Is there anything more beautiful than this particular brand of helplessness...?” he asks even as his hips snap, his voice low and rumbling in his chest, soft as a bedside prayer. “To be allowed to hold them, and crush them utterly through that very embrace, to coax the deepest vulnerabilities from their shattered forms... It is beautiful. Isn't it?”

The words are exceptionally bold, a blatant, sadistic confession, and they burn her to hear. Bedelia feels the back of her throat itch with revulsion, her mouth watering with her curiosity. Something sickly and warm flares in her gut. 

“Have you ever...?”

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes. “The way he used to beg for any sort of reprieve - not so much with words, but through the flickering of his eyes, the slackness of his jaw, the way he looked at me. I am only a man, Bedelia,” he murmurs, delighting in the secret irony of his words. “And I saw him as they looked upon Cleopatra; waging wars for her - _on_ her - body and soul.”

She grimaces. Despite the beauteous drawl of his words, what Bedelia sees in front of him is nothing short of hideous, just the selfish, disgusting acts of an animal. His cock plunges in deep with every word, carving him open, every thrust bruising and firm. Antony barely makes a sound as he’s jostled. A glob of saliva starts to dribble slowly from his lips. 

“I resent this, Hannibal,” she eventually finds herself whispering, unwilling to allow the silence in the room to only be interrupted by the sounds of slapping skin. “This is heinous, even for you.”

“Is it?” Hannibal muses. 

Her cheeks flush. She bites her lip. She can’t make herself respond again. He only continues, never missing a beat, hips snapping forward in an easy, powerful rhythm. 

"Consider Ganymede,” Hannibal announces after a moment. “A mortal so beautiful that Zeus himself dived down from the skies to transform him for his purposes, his pleasures. It is in our nature to take.”

“And so, you are justified?” Bedelia asks softly, bitterly. “In taking from him,” she gestures at Antony’s body, “from Will,” she continues, meeting his eyes and forcing away the tightness in her throat. “From me?”

“From you,” Hannibal repeats. “What have I taken from you?”

She scoffs, and Hannibal’s lip quirks as he leans down to taste from Antony’s mouth.

“Was I the one who packed your bags and forced you to follow? Did I put that pistol into your hands, the one you so graciously aimed at me, all those months ago? Am I making you watch as I commit this, as you’ve put it, this _heinous_ act. Or have you decided to stay?”

He smiles. Her heart skips and patters as she stares at him, dazed and shocked.

“Do you still somehow see yourself the innocent bystander? The victim?” He laughs softly at the concept. “And yet, what are you doing now? You haven’t lifted a finger to help him. You’re watching, not with fear, not because I’ve threatened you, but because the sight has _amused_. Entertained. Dare I say, aroused...”

Bedelia’s eyes widen and her legs squeeze together against her will, stomach jumping at the accusation. Hannibal’s eyes practically gleam as he crouches over the man under him, his nostrils flaring, his features absolutely bestial.

He rams into him. The words fail her, then, as Hannibal suddenly starts pounding into him with earnest, the bed creaking madly as he does. Antony noises helplessly in his unconsciousness, a pained whimper, desperate and pathetic, and it makes a foreign warmth surge up in her, hearing that, _seeing_ that, taking in the true and terrifying sight of just how _helpless_ he is. The poor man completely at Hannibal’s mercy, reduced to a thing to rip and maim and tear into, and Hannibal himself looks like a beast, a monster. She watches his muscles rippling as he works, the fierce cut of his jaw, the flash of his teeth as his lips curl from exertion and pleasure. The harsh sounds of his breath echoes all around her.

Her jaw drops, her mouth slackening, her eyes fluttering without her say. Her hand gently raises, her fingers resting against plump, sensitive lips as she drags in a shaky breath, covering her mouth to keep from being heard.

It takes everything she can to force her traitorous body to at least _turn around_ as heat suddenly rushes through her, her knees buckling as she suddenly finds the door frame, leaning into it with a gasp as she cums untouched to the sound of Hannibal ravaging that tragic thing in the background. 

* * *

Almost as if to taunt her, he brings a woman to their home next. And she’s beautiful, her golden hair spilling across the sheets, full breasts lolling with every thrust, a small, impish blade in Hannibal's hands delicately caressing her soft and creamy skin. Bedalia watches with the bizarre sense that she’s both the watcher and the watched, her eyes rolling with hers, her chest heaving with her breaths. She can feel Hannibal’s hand as it lays upon his mistress’s throat. She can practically feel his cock as it splits her open. 

_What have I taken from you?_ A preposterous question. She knows he wants her to feel responsible, to feel strung along, to know that she chooses her own ruination with every moment they spend together.

_Am I making you watch?_ Preposterous. She knows what she’s agreeing to. What she’s allowing. What she’s consented to.

And it’s heavenly. Accepting it, giving in, sinking into that same hellish warmth. Her eyes flutter, her mouth falls open. Revulsion and power spin in a heady, intoxicating dance in the pit of her stomach. She watches, enraptured, as Hannibal _takes_ and displays it all for her, for her amusement and her arousal, for the simple bastardly _pleasure_ of it. 

And this time, it isn’t until the knife is sinking into the meat that she gasps. 


End file.
